


The Art of Apology

by aleeliah



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Art, Artist Dean Winchester, Author making shit up about art, Cas has a bike, Dean's sauve af, Dean/Cas Reverse Bang, M/M, who am I kidding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-22
Updated: 2018-06-22
Packaged: 2019-05-26 22:39:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15010976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aleeliah/pseuds/aleeliah
Summary: New York City is a fantastic place, they say. The big apple. Multicultural melting pot. The home of some of the world's greatest museums and art galleries. Somewhere to start anew, somewhere to disappear into the masses and reinvent yourself.It's fucking frightening, that's what it is. Dean's never felt more like a fish on dry land. All he's gotta do is convince people that his art is great and secure his future. That's all. Easy. He can do this.Oh, boy.





	The Art of Apology

  


Dean ripped the tie from his throat again and started over, glaring at himself in the mirror. The muted yellow of Sam’s office-slash-guest-room grated on him, and the polished mahogany dresser was just offensive. The tie slipped.

“Son of a -” He could feel his undershirt start clinging to his back as he ripped the tie from his throat again. It just refused to look good.

“Goddamn- _Sam!_ ”

“What’s it this ti-” his brother said, appearing at the bedroom door like a ginormous orangutan in a L’Oréal commercial. “Oh, come on. It’s a tie, you’ve worn a tie before.”

“Ten years ago!” Dean thrust the tie towards Sam. “Got no use wearin’ ties every day, unlike _some people_ I know, so shut up and tie it for me.”

Sam rolled his eyes and grabbed the tie, quickly knotting it around Dean’s neck and smoothing his collar down, gold glinting on his left hand. Dean glared enviously at the fancy knot of Sam’s suit, looking photoshoot perfect and irritatingly enough, not far from eye height for him. If Sam grew any taller...

“Okay, we need to leave in fifteen,” Sam said. “If you need to pee, do it now.”

“What am I, five?” Dean bit out. He actually did have to piss, but dammit, no way would he tell his brother that. “Want me to just go _try_?”

He moved to shove past Sam.

“Dean, hey,” Sam grabbed his arm. “It’s okay to be nervous. Just… please stop being a dick about it.”

Sam’s eyes were pleading. Dean sighed. “Sorry. I’m just…”

“Uncomfortable, yeah, I get it. I do. You’ll do fine though.”

Dean lifted his hand to run through his hair, but grimaced when he felt the stiffness of the hair product and dropped it again. “The fuck am I even doing here, Sammy? I don’t need this. I’ve got a good job, and I already sell my shit at art fairs.”

“Yeah, you do, but Bela says you’ve got talent. This is exactly the same as the fairs, I swear. It’s just a different setting. You’ve been doing this for years already. You’ll be fine, and NYU will be great for you.”

“What you mean is ‘Shut up and deal’,” Dean said, sighing. “I was doomed the minute Bela got the idea. I never should’ve given you that wedding present.”

Sam laughed, clapping his shoulder. “You’re not wrong, that thing started this, and she’s stubborn. Come on, bathroom and then we’re out. This juice cleanse is making me need to piss every five seconds, and I’m still hungry.”

“I swear you told me juice cleanses are _so good for you, Dean, you don’t even feel hungry_.”

“They are,” Sam objected. “They’re really good for you, all the fruit and veg is organic! It just… takes a while before they kick in.”

“Sure they do, Samantha.”

Sam raised his hands in resignation, then glanced at his wrist watch and pointed at Dean. “I’d fight you, but my wife will kill me because we’ll be late. Bathroom, Dean. Go!”

Fifteen minutes later, Dean had been piled into a yellow cab, Sam by his side. The cab crossed the Queensboro bridge and Manhattan loomed ever closer before swallowing them. Dean stared at the city through the window, trying to picture this as his new home. The high rises towered above them, stone and metal and gleaming window panes. If his sculpture did well, if he got the scholarship, if he got in the classes… He swallowed back the nausea, suddenly very glad he’d not had much to eat that morning.

“How’d she get me to Upper West Side?” he asked Sam, more to distract himself than anything else. “I googled and it seems … fancy.”

Sam shrugged. “One of Sarah’s artists dropped out, so she called Bela, who called you. She said your art should be shown outside, like you do at fairs, and she’s been waiting for something like this. One of the guys from the Met will be there. She says he’s an art enthusiast with way too much money. He’ll have contacts.”

“Fantastic. I could’ve used a little more warning than _Dean, it’s on Saturday, you’ll come save me, won’t you? I booked your flights. Thank you, dah-rling!_ ”

Sam smiled sheepishly. “You know how she is.”

“I don’t know why you married her,” Dean muttered. “Probably bullied you into that - come to think of it, you never told me: how _did_ that happen?”

“Yeah, uh, it … happened,” Sam said. “One minute we were -” he paused for a beat too long, his ears reddening in a way Dean _definitely_ didn’t want to think about for too long “- anyway, yeah, uh, one second we were _here_ and then the next we were booking tickets and -”

“... and then there was a phone call from frigging Hawaii. _I got married, Dean!_ No invitation, no warning, no _bachelor party_ , just _bam_ , you’re married.” Dean shook his head in mock despair.

“I’m sorry,” Sam started. “It’s been a crazy year, and I just -”

Dean grinned. “Nah, no sweat, I’m just teasing. Look, man, I’m happy for you. She’s nuts, but she’d have to be to put up with you.”

“I can agree with that,” Sam admitted.

They rode in silence for almost a full minute before Dean blinked.

“Wait. Did you propose during -”

Sam immediately flushed red. “I uh - no. It was, I mean, she proposed.”

Dean stared. Then he laughed.

Sam slumped in his seat.

“You!” Dean gasped. “She - oh that’s! Go Sammy!”

“I shouldn’t have told you that,” Sam muttered.

Dean snickered and Sam glared at him for a bit before melting into another pleased smile.

“So, apart from Bela and Rich Dude, who’s going to be there today?”

Sam shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t know. I assume some artists, some enthusiasts, some critics. A lot of people networking. I’m just the arm candy, really. I make nice while Bela does her thing.”

Dean snorted. “That’s what law school gets you? I could do that, no student loans, nothin’. Maybe I should’ve tried harder with Sarah.”

Sam shook his head, amused.

The cab pulled to a stop along West 58th Street and Sam ushered Dean out of the cab and into an elevator, and then to a second elevator. Then they were on the roof and _whoa_ , alright, Dean was _not_ gonna look over the edge of the garden again, nope. Not happening.

“Sam!” Bela called, her brown hair in a tight bun and black pencil skirt clinging to her hips as she trotted on high heels towards her husband. She gave Sam a brief peck on the lips, then turned to Dean. This was definitely Bela in work-mode, no sign of the woman Dean had once found in a fuzzy fleece pajamas, asleep on Sam’s chest on the couch.

“Dean, dah-rling!” She kissed his cheeks, then pulled back to scrutinize him. “You look good. Did Sam do your tie?”

“... yes,” Dean admitted.

“Good. Come see where I placed your sculpture!” She waved him along, tossing out over her shoulder; “Sam, check on the canapés, please, but don’t eat everything.”

Sam squawked, offended. “I don’t do that! That’s Dean!”

Dean flipped him off over his shoulder as he tried to keep up with Bela as she wound her way between tall bushes and _holy shit_ was that actual grass? It felt like it when he toed it carefully before rushing to keep up with Bela. It was actually a garden, he realised, as they turned the corner. Or perhaps a maze would be closer, like one of those giant English things. It’s probably why Bela felt so at home. Shit, he’d lost her again.

“Over here!” she called. “Look, I thought it would do well in this area. There’s stone around here, so the concrete won’t be out of context -” she pointed at a flat stone path “- and the ivy on the brick wall back there as a backdrop will accentuate it. The cement is so harsh of it’s own, the grass and sun will soften that, which is good.”

He nodded. He had no idea what she was talking about, but she sounded sure, so… Okay then.  She pulled out her phone and frowned at it, typing quickly. He tugged discreetly at his collar when she turned her back. Goddamn it was warm. The sun shone from a clear sky and while the rooftop garden was windy, the wind was as warm and humid as it could get in July. Somewhere on the street below a car honked.

“- are you even listening? Dean?”

“Uh, sorry,” he said, looking back at her. “I just -”

She tucked a stray hair behind her ear. “We’ll open in ten. Have a walk around the garden and look at the other two pieces we’re showing.”

“Two?!” His voice _did not_ go that high. It didn’t.

“Well, yes,” she said slowly. “We’re only showing three pieces at this event. Didn’t I say?”

“No, you didn’t!” Dammit, what was with the squeaky voice? He cleared his throat. “Bela, come on, you can’t put this here with the -”

She rolled her eyes. “I can, I have, and I haven’t the time to deal with your panic, so kindly shut it and take it elsewhere.” She patted his arm as she walked past him. “There will be wine at the bar later. Please only have one.”

Bela walked off, her heels clicking against the stone path as she headed back to where they’d left Sam.

“Bela!” he barked after her, but she didn’t turn around.

Well. Shit. So much for _no pressure_. Three sculptures and his was one. Holy shit. He looked around and took the path in the opposite direction. The garden really wasn’t large, more like a patio with some chairs and a bar at one end, a lawn at the other, and a stone path winding through it. Bushes divided it into smaller … rooms. Were they called rooms if it was a garden? He had no idea.

Behind the turn, he came across one bronze statue of what looked like an older man with monkeys on his shoulders and a head coming out of it’s back. A fairly short man stood rubbing at it with a cloth, muttering rapidly under his breath. Dean left him to it, feeling slightly weirded out, and followed the path into yet another room where the green lawn changed into flat sandstone and low thyme. The back wall of the garden had been transformed into a waterfall, water trickling over uneven stones and down to a small pool, the surrounding area covered in ivy. In the middle of the garden room were three spiraling metal arms, winding around each other to point at the sky. They caged four oval stones which stood balanced on each other at angles.  

He stared at it a bit.

Yes. Good. Art. Two artists and _him_. He couldn’t make heads or tails of the other two sculptures. What in the fuck was he doing here?

He went back, ignoring the nervous man who now wringing his hands in a corner by a bright orange plant. That guy looked like Dean felt. Maybe that orange plant could hide vomit, he’d have to remember that later.

He walked back through the maze to where a server was polishing glasses behind the bar and Sam was eyeing a plate of canapes.

“Dude,” Dean hissed.

“I wasn’t going to eat them!” Sam protested at once, turning to face him.

The server placed another glass in the neat row on the bar top.

“Shit, eat whatever, I don’t care,” Dean said, waving his hand. “Why didn’t you say it’s just me and two guys? I went to look and their stuff is like, _interesting_. Artsy.”

“So’s yours,” Sam said, still looking at the canapes. Dean couldn’t fault him; they did look good.

“It’s cement!” Dean hissed.

“So?” Sam shrugged and glanced around.

Dean blew out a breath, again trying to rake his hand through his hair, just to yank it back at the last second. “There’s an enormous statue back there with like, stones and steel, and there’s a guy polishing his _bronze_.”

“So?”

“ _Sam._ ”

Sam huffed and looked at him. “I don’t know shit about art, Dean. I don’t know what that _means_. I’m just the arm candy, remember?”

“I don’t either, that’s the point!” Dean forced himself to relax and smile as another server passed them. “You’re shitty goddamn arm candy, you yeti. No wonder you need the juice cleanse.”

“Speaking of… Do you see Bela?”

Dean craned his neck. “Not right now?”

Sam eyed him and reached a hand towards the canapes.

“Dude. No.” Dean slapped his hand. Sam actually whined.

“You just said _eat whatever_.” Sam rubbed his hand, looking up at Dean through his bangs, which was ridiculous as Sam was like nine feet tall and twenty-goddamned-six.

“Yeah, but your wife is scary and you can’t be my lawyer if you’re dead.” He side-eyed the server.

”Can’t be your lawyer until I pass the bar anyway.”

“So?”

“Can’t pass the bar if I’ve died of starvation, Dean. It’s day four. Four. _Six_ days to go.”

“Eh, you’ll live. Three days without water, three weeks without food, right?”

“Don’t quote Dad at me.” The server turned his back at them and Dean reached for a canape. _He_ wasn’t on a hippie juice cleanse, thank you for asking.

“Boys,” Bela said from behind them. Dean started and drew his hand back.

“Don’t _do_ that!”

She rolled her eyes and passed Sam a large glass of green sludge. Sam gratefully reached for it.

“Thanks, babe.”

“You won’t make it through otherwise, dear.” She went up on her toes and pressed a brief kiss to his cheek. “Now! Doors open, so expect people to be around. Dean, you’re looking for a short man in a suit, pretending to be anything but disgustingly plebeian. He’s your mark. Schmooze and agree with anything he says.”

“Um,” Dean said intelligently.

“Don’t worry, you’ll do fine.”

 

An hour later, Dean was thinking about that orange flower, and most certainly _not_ doing well. The short dude in a suit, Crowley, was obviously very, very rich, and annoyingly chatty. Dean had been sipping the rose wine and making agreeable noises, while sending Sam pleading looks, but there had been no sign of rescue. At least Bela hadn’t caught him sneaking a second glass.

“- and then he just goes on and on and _on_ ,” Crowley said, rolling his eyes, “and I’m left standing there just waiting for him to _shut up_ already, but he can’t, of course he can’t, because it’s Gabriel, see, and this is what Gabriel does - just natters at you like a toy poodle. Blah, blah, blah-blah-blaaah.”

 “Uh-huh,” Dean said into his wineglass, sipping the last of it. Between the heat and the lack of food, even the two glasses were going to his head. It might have been wishful thinking though.

 “Now,” Crowley said abruptly. “Which ones of these is yours?”

 “I’m sorry?” Dean said.

 “As fun as it is to stand here and bore you to death, I _do_ have other things to do. You’ve obviously been put to babysit me, we’ve had our wine and a chat, so one of these works is yours and you need money. Show the way, chop chop.”

 Dean glanced at his empty wine glass. Alright then.

 “Um, this way.”

 “There’s a good lad.”

When they reached Dean’s statue, another man stood looking at it. He was dressed in a beige summer suit jacket and dark pants. His hair stuck up at all ends, his hands in his trouser pockets. Dean narrowed his eyes, but decided to ignore him. He made a vague gesture towards the statue.

“Hmm,” Crowley said, handing Dean his wine glass.

Dean glanced at it, then looked back to Crowley who walked a slow circle around the statue, frowning and tilting his head this way and that for a long moment. It looked fine to Dean; a strong man’s hand around the lower body of a fleeing woman, one of her hands pushing at the fingers squeezing her legs, the other arm stretched upwards in pleading despair. 

 

“Castiel,” Crowley said and Dean started, “what do you think?”

The stranger spread his hands. “It’s a bit crude, but it works.”

His voice was deep, and Dean frowned. Who was this dick?

“Crude,” Crowley prompted.

Castiel pointed at it. “The hand, see? The proportions between the fingers are off - it’s more a representation of what the artist _thinks_ a man’s hand is supposed to look like, than an actual hand. The woman is clearly trying to escape, but does she want it _enough_ ?” He shrugged, tucking his hands back into his pockets. “I know the hand is squeezing her legs, but maybe the artist could show them more, show the struggle more in her leg position - she should be kicking, but I can’t tell if she is. Her movement should be up and out, but she’s almost leaning _left_.”

He sighed. “There’s not enough passion in this, I want it to be life-and-death because he’s literally squeezing the life out of her. It’s like the artist is aiming for Louise Bourgeois, her hand statues, but they’re not quite getting there.”

Dean bristled, but kept his mouth shut.

Crowley nodded. “The setting’s completely wrong for a piece like this too. Sunlight? What were they thinking?”

“Yes,” Castiel said, nodding. “The brick rescues it, but this needs to be -”

“Elsewhere, you’re quite right. Well!” Crowley clapped his hands. “Thank you for your apt analysis, Castiel. Charming, as always. Dean, I’ll let your agent - Bela, was it? - yes, good, I’ll let her know by Wednesday. It’s been a wonderful, perfect bore. Goodbye, boys!”

With that, he left Dean holding his wine glass. Dean glared.

“Dude! That guy’s my ticket to NYU!”

Castiel turned to him, blinking, and all right, whoa, who gave the guy eyes _that_ blue?

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t realise.”

“Yeah, well. That’s not gonna help me if your review or whatever screwed me over.” He drained Crowley’s wine glass without even thinking about it.

“I am sorry,” the other man repeated in that gravelly voice.

Dean flicked his eyes over Castiel, before focusing on his blue eyes. So pretty. He shook himself. Damn. The wine _had_ gone to his head.

“Just stay the fuck away from my art, okay?” he bit out, turning to walk away.

“Castiel, dah-rling!” Bela appeared out of thin air, heels clicking and Sam by her side. She swept into Castiel’s arms, kissing his cheeks. “It’s been ever so long!”

“Bela,” Castiel said, his voice warm.

“I see you’ve found Dean’s art,” Bela trilled happily and caught Dean’s arm as he was just about to slink away. Castiel’s eyes flicked between them. “Dean, this is Castiel, he did his Master’s degree in Art History with Sarah. Castiel, Dean is my husbands brother - you’ve met Sam, I believe?”

“Yes, I have,” Castiel said, reaching a hand out to Sam. “It’s good to see you again, Sam.”

“Likewise,” Sam said, shaking Castiel’s hand.

Bela’s hand was a vice on Dean’s arm as he tried to tug away.

“Pleasure,” he muttered in Castiel’s direction.

“Dean’s trying to get a scholarship to do a few sculpture classes at NYU,” Bela continued. “I think he’ll do well and fit right in, but it would be good for him to have a few connections.” She turned slightly towards Dean, “Castiel has a fantastic eye for art, and he’s quite good as a critic. Why don’t you boys exchange phone numbers?”

“Um, sure, I,” Dean said, fumbling for his phone.

Castiel held his out. “Why don’t you type yours in, I’ll text you?”

Grinding his teeth together, Dean mustered a smile when he took the phone. “Absolutely.”

He typed his phone number as quickly as possible and nearly shoved it back at Castiel, who fiddled with the screen for a minute before sliding it back into his pocket. Bela nodded, pleased, and leaned back against Sam, who put his arm around her.

“I’m so sorry,” Castiel said. “I find I must be going, late lunch with my mother. It was good seeing you again, Bela, Sam. Dean.”

“Of course,” Bela said. “Send our best to your mother. Let’s have dinner some time soon, it’s been far too long.”

Castiel nodded and shook hands again, before disappearing off towards the elevator.

“I, uh,” Dean said. “Am I done here?”

“What happened with Crowley?” Bela demanded.

Dean shrugged. “Schmoozed for an hour. He saw right through it. Asked me what piece was mine, came over, _Castiel_ was an ass and criticized the shit outta the statue, Crowley left, and maybe I just… lost it. A little.”

Bela blinked. Sam frowned, his stupid five-head creasing the same way it had when he’d been three and constipated.

“Dean.”

Dean groaned. “I know, I know, Sammy, I fucked up.”

“Crowley trusts Castiel,” Bela said. “You wouldn’t know it, but he values Castiel’s opinion.”

“Fan-fucking-tastic, I’ll go suck up to Castiel then!”

Sam went up on tippy-toes, extending his giraffe-like neck over the top of the bushes. “I think he just left.”

Dean groaned.

“Great.”

Unsurprisingly, Castiel never texted back.

 

Dean was on his back, staring at the white ceiling above the bed in Sam’s guestroom. It was still about eight million degrees. The open window did nothing but let in the sounds of the city on a breeze carrying the fumes of the cars far below them. He’d gone to bed early, claiming to be exhausted, which had been true. He’d felt like a wrung out rag, worn and smelly and awful, when he’d showered and brushed his teeth. Then he’d climbed into bed and pulled the sheet and the thin blanket over himself and… stared.

NYU had always been a pipedream, something Sam had said one summer night while sitting on the Impala’s hood in a field outside Sioux Falls, sipping beer and staring at a dark sky. He’d been home from college, moving from Stanford to Manhattan to intern and live closer to Bela.

“Maybe you should come to New York,” Sam had said, “Bela tells me NYU has a good art program,” and Dean, in a moment of peace and contentment, had said “Yeah, maybe,” which had been enough for Sammy.

Dean snorted and twisted onto his side, uselessly punching the already fluffy pillow a few times. Sammy had always been the one with dreams and ambitions. Even as a kid he’d told Dean all about them in the back of the Impala. Of course Sam had created some sort of plan for bringing Dean to NYU, and roped Bela into it.

It would’ve worked, because Sam’s plans always worked, Dean thought glumly. If only he didn’t fuck it up. How hard could it possibly be to just… not fuck up?

He rolled onto his back again, swallowing. Maybe a glass of water would help him settle.

The lights were still on in the small hallway as he walked across to the kitchen. Low voices murmured from the living room and he could just barely see the back of Sam’s head over the couch. He filled a glass with water and walked closer.

“... be alright,” Sam said in a low voice, just as Dean leaned on the door frame.

Bela, this time not in fuzzy fleece pajamas but one of Sam’s washed out Stanford T-shirts and a pair of leggings, was leaning against Sam’s chest. Her hair was splayed out and damp, one of Sam’s hand brushing it back, the other linked with Bela’s near her chin.

“Maybe I could ask Sarah,” Bela said into their hands. “She likes Dean, even if the date didn’t work out. She might know where Castiel works.”

Sam hummed, scratching her scalp. Bela sighed a little, closing her eyes and relaxing against her husband.

“I love you,” she said, “even if your juice cleanse is daft.”

“I love you too,” Sam said and kissed the top of her head. “Don’t worry about anything tonight, okay?”

“Mmh,” Bela agreed. “Don’t stop that.”

Sam huffed and scratched her scalp again.

Dean backed out and left them to it.

Next morning, Sam handed him his cereal and a scrap of paper with the name of a park in Greenwich. He told Dean that Bela had called Sarah, who had said Castiel frequently hung around there when he worked. Shoving a spoon of cereal into his mouth, Dean managed to stop the _sir, yes sir_ he'd been about to blurt out. He settled for narrowing his eyes, which sent Sam off on a tangent about taking responsibility for your actions.

In the end, Dean spent an eternity rattling around on the subway to get from Queens to Christopher Street Station, wondering how the hell he was to fix this. He plowed through throngs of people, until he spotted the small garden. Green area. Whatever, it had a few benches and there were a couple of trees and some flowers. He frowned at the white statues by some of the benches, portraying two men standing very close together and two women, hands touching on the other’s thigh.

“Find them offensive?” a voice called.

“No?” he said, turning. “I kinda like ‘em.”

“Ah, I thought you might be one of _those_ ,” a man with blonde hair and far, far too much chest showing, said. “Sorry about that.”

There were three of them by one of the benches, sweaty and leaning back. Well, the blonde haired one _sprawled_ across the bench, spandex clad legs kicked out over a black man’s thighs, leaving the third man on the ground, lowering a water bottle from his mouth.

“He’s an artist, Baz,” Castiel said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. It dripped onto his shirt and Dean had to tear his eyes away. Castiel in a suit and Castiel sweaty and in biking gear were two very different things, clearly.

“So you’ve met then,” Baz said, eyeing Dean in a way that made him feel distinctly uncomfortable.

“Briefly,” Castiel muttered, unclipping a bike helmet from his head and raking a hand through his hair. It stood straight up. Which was not hot. At all.

Dean cleared his throat. “About that.”

“Date didn’t go well then?” Baz said, pulling his legs from the black man’s lap, and turning fully towards them.

“It wasn’t a date,” Dean sputtered. “I -”

“And here I thought you had finally found someone, Cassie.”

“Bite me, Baz,” Castiel said. “We met at an art show last weekend.”

Baz gave Castiel a look and flopped back again, defeated. The black man barely blinked, and Dean eyed him wearily.

“I, uh, I came to apologise,” he said.

“You came to suck up,” Castiel said, tilting his head and squinting up at Dean, “thinking that I could make Crowley listen to me if you just apologised.”

“That too,” Dean admitted.

“You’re wrong. I can’t make Crowley do anything.”

“I’d still like to apologise.”

“Go on then.” Castiel leaned back against the bench, shoulder against Baz’s knee.

Dean swallowed, looking at the three men. Bike helmets, snug t-shirts and tights in gaudy colours shouldn’t be intimidating, dammit.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, then coughed and looked straight at Castiel. “I’m sorry. I was out of line. I didn’t mean to chew you out like that. That wasn’t fair, you didn’t do anything wrong and I -”

Three phones dinged at the same time and Dean stared as three grown men scrambled for their phones.

“Got it!” Baz said, waving his phone in his hand and standing.

“Me too,” the black man said, shoving his phone into the pocket on his lower back.

“Damn,” Castiel said, sinking to the ground.

“Snooze, you lose,” Baz called over his shoulder.

The two scrambled for bikes that Dean hadn’t noticed, jostling each other as they unlocked heavy chains. Baz clipped a helmet onto his head, yanked up a backpack onto his back and kicked off.

“Come on, Uri!” he shouted, pedalling off onto the street.

Uri wrestled himself onto the bike.

“Later, Cassie,” he grunted, taking off after Baz.

“Uh, wow,” Dean said.

Castiel turned to him and frowned. “You’re still here.”

“Yes?”

“You have apologised already.”

Dean flushed. “Right. I should just -”

Castiel groaned and rubbed his face. “Fine, _fine_ ,” he said towards the sky, and then stood.

“I missed a job and it’s 1 pm, which means it’s time for lunch. That means that _you_ ,” he pointed at Dean, “are buying me the best sandwich in Greenwich, and then you’re telling me everything about your art.”

Dean nodded mutely.

The sandwich turned out to be fourteen dollars each from the back of a small trailer that Dean called a _food truck_ and Castiel termed _pop-up restaurant_. Wrapped in old newspaper, their sandwiches didn’t look like much at all to Dean, but Castiel reached eagerly for his. They sat on concrete steps near the food truck, the bright sunshine making the stone hot below them. Dean peeled back the paper and squinted at the mushy meat between two thick slices of bread.

“These are so good,” Castiel murmured through his first bite, “if it wasn’t for cheeseburgers, I’d live off of these.”

“Is that coleslaw?” Dean frowned.

“Pulled pork, coleslaw, pickled red onion, sourdough bread.”

Dean nibbled a corner. Then he took a bigger bite and had to hold back a groan.

“Jesus, that’s good.”

“Right?” Castiel opened a sweating soda with one hand and gave it to Dean who put it next to him on the stairs.

“Holy. You can get these anytime?”

Castiel laughed, face scrunching in a way that was definitely, most assuredly, _not_ cute. Finding people attractive was fine, but finding the guy who stood between you and the rest of your life both drop-dead gorgeous _and_ cute, that was definitely not fine.

“Only when I guilt people into buying them for me.”

“Like me?” Dean raised his eyebrows.

“Like you,” Castiel nodded.

“Dammit.”

“You bought me food, now tell me about your art.” Castiel took another bite.

“I, uh, what do you want to know?”

Castiel shrugged. “You’re the one that needs to suck up.”

“Because that’s not awkward,” Dean muttered. “Well. I do sculptures. Mostly clay, and cast them in cement. Cheaper that way. Sometimes mixed media. Shit. I dunno. Am I supposed to have a story?”

“Everyone has a story,” Castiel said, licking a piece of coleslaw from his thumb. “When did you start?”

“I was ten, maybe,” Dean gestured and explained between bites, “I used to make these wire figures for my brother, when he lost his army men. I’d pick up new ones when I could, but I guess we travelled a lot, so they just… disappeared. I made replacements in wire. They were shit, but Missouri - that’s my mom - she saw them and got me more wire, so I kept makin’em. She sells art at fairs ‘n’ stuff, so she gave me a corner of her table.”

He glanced over and saw Castiel listening intently.

“I, yeah, so that’s about it.” Dean rubbed awkwardly at the back of his neck. “There ain’t much more to tell. Sam - that’s my brother - he married Bela last year, and I gave them this piece for a wedding gift. Bela loves that thing. Kept telling me I have a gift. Sammy got it into his head that I should come to New York and study art. I figured that was kinda dumb, I mean what kind of job does an art degree get you?”

Castiel grinned, lowering his soda can. “Courier.”

“What?”

Castiel gestured to the bike leaning against his leg. “I majored in Art History. Now I’m a bike messenger, and sometimes I temp as a security guard at a gallery downtown.”

“Glamourous,” Dean said, popping the last bite into his mouth.

“Very. Sometimes I can even do more than pay rent. Breathe, for example.”

Dean ooooh’ed sarcastically. “That really paid off, now I definitely feel like this will be worth the ass kissing.”

“Alas, we do it for the love of art, not for the money. Or so they say.”

“They?”

“The rich ones, who can afford to.”

Dean snorted. “The rest of us need lowly things like food and shelter.”  
  
“Speaking of,” Castiel said, pulling out his phone and poking it. “Ah! Sandwich delivery on 5th. Back to work for me.”

“Yeah, um, thanks,” Dean said, hurriedly standing as Cas clipped on his helmet. “For hearing me out, I mean.”

“Anytime,” Cas winked. “Feel free to buy me more apology sandwiches.”

Then he took off, waving as he pedalled into traffic, leaving Dean in the afternoon bustle of Manhattan streets. He shook his head, not sure exactly how that had gone, before making his way back to the metro. Maybe he should check out a museum or two.

 

Neither Sam or Bela were home that evening, out at some work _thing_ of Sam’s. Dean sprawled over their sofa in sweats, attempting to look as carefree and comfortable as possible, while Sam glared at him in the mirror and knotted his bow tie. Bela had tiptoed around in absurdly high-heels and a black dress, before they had disappeared out the door, leaving Dean alone in the apartment.

He had gone to bed by the time they returned. Bela giggled and Sam hushed her as they passed outside the Dean’s door. Dean shook his head and grinned before pulling on his headphones. He only woke once, when a cold wind and clap of thunder forced him to close the bedroom window.

Wednesday afternoon, Sam’s TV was trying to sell him a mop when Dean’s phone beeped. He frowned at the message. 

> >>> Getting off work in an hour. Drink?

The number wasn’t one that he recognised, and he didn’t think he’d given his out recently. Except that one girl at Starbucks. Hm. Sam and Bela were working anyway, maybe he could speed date a little.

> <<< Annie? 

 

> >>> Castiel  
>  >>> I have considered changing my name. I guess I could be an Annie.  
>  >>> Do I look like an Annie?

Dean could feel himself making a dumb face at his phone, but why the hell would Castiel be texting him? They’d parted amicably enough after having lunch, sure, but he was pretty sure that didn’t account for… this. 

> <<< Did you text the wrong number?

He’d barely pressed send when a new message came in 

> >>> [image]

He squinted at the photo on his, admittedly not-so-modern, phone. It was a painting of some sort, with large, seemingly random, brushstrokes of bright reds and muted yellows.

> >>> Sometimes I don’t understand abstract art.  
>  >>> Well, if you aren’t Dean, I’ve been given the wrong number and I apologise. I hope you aren’t a die-hard fan of abstract painting.

What the ever-loving fuck...? He glanced at the TV, where the mop in question looked about four times more effective than his own. Maybe he needed a new one after all. Or a life. One or the other, really. He blinked back down at his phone when the screen went black. 

> <<< Yeah, it’s Dean  
>  <<< What is that?

If Castiel with his fancy degree didn’t understand it, Dean probably wasn’t going to get it either.

> >>> Oh, good.  
>  >>> It says it’s supposed to be a flower in a desert.

Dean snorted and pulled up the image again, looking closely at it before replying.

> <<< A flower? Where?

Cas’s text came through quickly, he’d probably been typing while Dean studied the photo.

> >>> “An innovative take on abstract art, Flower In A Desert is a thought provoking take on beauty in solitude.”

 

> <<< what

Maybe this frown would stick permanently to his forehead. Did art school make people weird? 

> >>> That’s what I was thinking.
> 
> >>> So, drink? No abstract art included.

 

> <<< why
> 
> >>> Oh, do you not drink? I thought I saw you have wine at the show. We can pick another venue.

_That_ was what the guy took from this? Dean glanced around but didn’t see any hidden cameras, which was good, because he was fairly sure that Bela wouldn’t agree to him sitting in his underwear on her Chesterfield sofa. 

> <<< I drink  
>  <<< I mean, why a drink

 

> >>> I’ve been looking at that painting all day and now I feel like one

Dean leaned back against the sofa. Maybe he did need to do something. The woman on the TV miserably failed at using a regular mop… again. He was pretty sure he was better at mopping than that. 

> <<< Okay  
>  <<< Sure  
>  <<< Where

 

> >>> What line are you on?

Fucking metro, he’d forgotten. Damn New York.

> <<< Queens  
>  <<< Yellow?

 

> >>> 5th Ave, 5.30?

He frowned, then checked his phone for stops and was relieved to see he wouldn’t have to change lines.

> <<< Deal.

Dean dropped his phone on the couch cushion next to him. Okay. He had no real idea how _that’d_ happened, but… maybe he should have a quick shower and change. Even if this wasn’t a date. Pants were usually required for making new friends.

A light, cool breeze greeted him an hour later when he surfaced from the metro. Castiel stood to the side, leaning on his elbows against the low wall, his bike squeezed between him and the wall. Dean swallowed. He’d seen Castiel in a suit and in biking gear, but in dark denim, a blue t-shirt and a goddamn black leather jacket, Cas looked, well. _Hot._

“You came!” Castiel said, grinning widely.

“Sure,” Dean said.

He contemplated whether to shake Castiel’s hand, but instead stood to the side as Castiel slung a bag over his shoulder and grabbed his bike.

“Thought you’d get enough of that thing,” Dean said.

“What?”

“Your bike,” Dean gestured. “You said you’re a bike messenger. I’d assume you’d get enough of it at work.”

Castiel shrugged. “I’m a bike messenger because I bike. Metro’s expensive. Biking is mostly free.”

Dean felt his face heat and cleared his throat. Goddamnit. Rule 1: Don’t insult a guy’s ride, jackass. Castiel didn’t seem to notice.

“Bar’s over there,” he waved and Dean fell into step beside him, crisscrossing between the other pedestrians.

“So, you were at the art gallery today?” Dean asked.

Cas made a disgruntled sound. “I was, Charles called in sick late this morning. It was a long and uneventful day.”

“The abstract painting told me that.”

“Surprisingly, the showing has gone rather well,” Cas said. “The painting I showed you sold today, for two grand.”

“Son of a bitch. That’s a lot of money.”

“I’m fairly certain the gallery hung it upside down.”

“I don’t know that right side up would’ve helped.”

Castiel hummed. “All of her paintings are in that style. It’s not that I dislike abstract art, I actually don’t. It’s just her style - it’s a complicated technique, and I must be the wrong person for it. All abstract art wants to provoke emotion. I’m fairly sure _boredom and confusion_ aren’t among the preferred ones.”

“Dude, you sound like an art encyclopedia or somethin’.”

“Downside of having sat in so many art crit classes,” Cas said. “Here we are, let me just lock my bike.” He leaned the bike against a cast iron fence and dug into his bag. “My mother would bring me to work with her when she held evening classes. Most of those classes were art crit. A lot of her students found it very amusing to have me critique the art too.”

Castiel snapped the heavy lock into place, then gestured for Dean to follow him down some stairs to a basement door. _Lafayette’s_ blinked in neon lights above them as Castiel held the door open.

“Thanks,” Dean said, passing him. “So your mom teaches?”

Castiel nodded. “Art crit and painting, in Chicago. Hi, Benny!”

A burly bartender waved at them. “What can I getcha fellas?”

“Old fashioned,” Cas said, before looking at Dean with a raised eyebrow.

“Um, scotch, neat,” Dean said, digging out a couple of bills from his pocket.

“Comin’ right up.” Benny patted the bar top and turned to the liquor shelf.

“So you’re following in her footsteps?” Dean asked. “That where you know Crowley from?”

“Yes,” Cas said, “he was one of my professors at NYU. Rude and sarcastic, but he’s got a fantastic eye for sculpting. We don’t really like each other, but I do respect what he does.”

Dean swallowed against the nerves building in his chest. Nope. NYU was definitely out by now.

“Here you go,” Benny slid their drinks over.

“Thanks, Benny,” Cas said. “Sit further in?”

Dean nodded and they slid into a booth further back. He stared at Cas, who sipped his drink and stared back.

“So, your mom?” he asked, when the silence stretched.

Cas wrinkled his nose. “Not anymore. I haven’t talked to her in years.”

“I’m sorry,” Dean said.

“It is what it is,” Cas shrugged. “I can’t do much about it.”

“I hear you, parents aren’t always so great.”

“Your mom sounds fantastic though.”

“Well, she’s my foster mom, really. She’s a tough one. I mean, she’s great, so long as you don’t bullshit her. Eat your vegetables. Don’t cuss. And she always, _always_ knows, even if you don’t.” Dean grimaced and rubbed his neck.

“Sounds like my grandmother,” Cas smiled. “Did you grow up with her?”

“Sorta. We moved in with her when I was fourteen,” Dean said, sipping his scotch. “We’d been with Uncle Bobby for a few years, but Bobby hurt his back pretty badly. S’was touch and go for a bit. I put up a hell of a fight, didn’t wanna leave the old man, but he couldn’t afford to keep us when he wasn’t workin’, so we went to Missouri. Still wish I could’a stayed, you know, but I got Sammy. Wasn’t sending him off to foster care alone.”

“Sounds rough,” Cas said quietly.

“It was.” He snorted and looked down at his scotch. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to get so depressing. It turned out okay. Bobby’s in a wheelchair now, but he’s got these great kids working for him at the scrap yard. We go see him every summer and help out with the house. He’s a grouchy bastard, but he’s family.”

Cas nodded. “Family comes in many shapes.”

“Sure does.” Dean shook himself and sipped the scotch again. “You got any family?”

“Just me and my mother,” Cas said. “My father died when I was little, I don’t remember him. My grandmother passed away a few years after that, I was ten. I have a few cousins that I was close to when I was a child, but that’s about it, and like I said, I haven’t spoken to my mother in years.”

Something niggled at Dean for a minute before he figured it out.

“Wait, at the art show, you said you were having a late lunch with your mother!”

Cas flushed, hunching forward. “It’s possible that may have been a small lie. I often find Bela a bit… much.”

“And I’d just yelled at you,” Dean said.

“For possibly ruining your future,” Cas said. “I never said it, but Dean, I am sorry. I didn’t know. I’d have yelled at you too.”

“Dude, no, you couldn’t have known. I was the asshole.”

They sat in awkward silence for a minute, before Dean leaned back.

“I’m still confused,” he said, “I mean, I overreact and insult you, and then you wanna grab a drink?”

Castiel shrugged and lifted his glass. “You apologised.”

“Yeah, but…”

“Oh.” Cas stiffened and looked at him with wide eyes. “Oh, no. I never meant to assume, I just thought, the way you were looking at the Stonewall statues, and with what Baz said, that -”

“Whoa, buddy,” Dean said, “you’re not making sense.”

Cas fell quiet and looked down at the table. “I should have asked.”

“Asked what?”

“If you’re - I mean, if this is,” Cas trailed off and shook his head before drawing himself up again. “I apologise. I should have asked if you wanted to meet as friends, or as a date. I am sorry for making assumptions about you.”

“A date,” Dean said dumbly, staring at the man in front of him. Jesus fuck.

“Friends it is,” Cas rushed out, lifting his glass and taking a hurried sip. “As long as you don’t mind my mistake.”

Dean blinked in confusion. “No, no, wait, I’m sorry, I just needed to reboot there for a second.”

He glanced at Cas, noting the ruffled hair and five o’clock shadow darkening his chin and jaw. He met Cas’s gaze, intense and looking straight at him.

“I -” he hesitated for a second, wetting his lips and glancing down at Cas’s. “I wouldn’t mind if this was a date.”

Cas licked his own lips. “A date it is, then.”

“Sure, cool,” Dean said, heat spreading through his body. “I’ve, um. It’s been a while.”

Cas hummed into his glass, pleased eyes trailing over Dean. “All the better for me.”

Goddamn, Dean hadn’t blushed this hard since he was fourteen and got caught looking down Susie McPhearton’s blouse. Cas grinned smugly.  
  
“Alright, how about you show me?”

“What?”

Cas held his hand out. “Your art. You’ve got photos. Everyone takes photos. Show me.”

“I don’t -” Dean faltered as Cas raised his eyebrow and grumbled before digging his phone out of his jeans pocket. “Fine. But I’m no photographer, so my photos are shit.”

“Don’t care.” Cas made an impatient _come on_ gesture.

Dean groaned and leaned closer to the table as he scrolled through his album.

“Okay, so this is one I sold at a fair,” he said, passing the phone across the table. “That one was a bitch to make, it took ages to get the angles right.”

“I can see why,” Cas murmured. “The lines are well done, the contrast between the seal and the ice too. Not very imaginative, though.”

“Not really, no. Wish I had actually seen a live seal before I made that one,” Dean muttered. “I dunno where the idea came from. This next one -” he took the phone back and flipped through a few photos “- that was all -”

“Oh.” Cas blinked down at the phone. “This is beautiful.”

Dean looked up from the table. “That’s not what people usually say.”

Cas frowned. “What do they say?”

“ _Dude. Morbid_.” Dean shrugged. “They’re right.”

“Yes, I mean. It’s that too. I just.” Cas stammered, before taking a sip of his drink and bending down over Dean’s phone again. “See, the way you’ve used a glass eye in the middle, and the blades as petals - it’s incredible. I love surrealistic art, pretty much all of it, I -” He paused. “Why didn’t you bring this one?”

“Bela said not to,” Dean said, picking up his phone. “Said the one I brought was morbid enough. I wasn’t sure it was done, I wanted her legs more… _more_.”

Castiel shook his head. “She should have let you bring this one. What did you make for their wedding gift?”

Dean scrolled for a while, listening to Benny greet and serve a few more customers. Eventually he found the video and passed the phone to Cas.

“That’s the one,” he said. “The wires took forever.”

Cas hummed. “I can see why Bela likes it, it’s just her style.”

“It is,” Dean nodded. “She keeps it on an end table, where you can walk around it to get all the angles.”

“As she should, anamorphic art loses it’s edge if you can’t see around it. It reminds me of Matthieu Robert-Ortis, though he does much larger pieces and mostly animals.”

“Who?”

“Have you seen that video of a wire statue with two giraffes that turns into an elephant?”

Dean shook his head.

“Damn.”

“I was thinking of that guy with the stairs, you know? Like, he filled pages with just stairs and people walking up and down?”

“M.C. Ecscher?”

“Think so, yeah.”

“I’ve copied some of his art,” Cas said, still looking at Dean’s phone, “when I was working on curvilinear perspective. It’s fascinating. Has your brother looked at closely this sculpture?”

“Yeah,” Dean nodded.

“What did he say?”

“Um, that it was really good, I think. He liked it at least.”

“So he’s not seen the -”

Dean rocked back and laughed. “You saw it!”

Cas broke out in a wide grin, the corners of his eyes wrinkling. “I did.”

“No one’s seen it until now. They’re all telling me it’s so beautiful, it’s about love, but they -”

“Completely missed that you made his nose a dick?”

Dean nodded. Then he met Cas’s eye and off they went, giggling until Dean thought his ribs would burst. When he finally managed to catch his breath, Cas had buried his face in his hands in an attempt to stifle his laughter.

“Ow,” Dean whined. “My stomach.”

Cas let out a snort of laughter before drawing a deep breath and holding it. He peered out from between his hands before wiping his eyes and pushing Dean’s phone back at him.

“Take it, take it,” he gasped. “I can’t, I’ll just start up again.”

“Okay, okay, topic change!” Dean tried. “Drink first, come on.”

He threw back the last of his scotch and watched Cas do the same with this drink, slowly letting the jitters leave them. Cas’s eyes were blue and warm when he lowered his glass again and relaxed back into his seat.

“So… Curvilinear perspective, huh?” Dean asked.

Castiel actually blushed. Dean stared at him.

“I’m, um,” he said. “I’m an art historian, I mean. I just dabble on occasion, it’s really nothing.”

“Uh-huh,” Dean playfully wriggled a finger, “I showed you mine, now show me yours.”

Cas stared at the table, eyes flicking between Dean and his empty glass. He frowned for a long moment and Dean was just about to retract his statement when Cas sighed.

“You’re right, you did. Damn.”

“Yes!” Dean pumped his fist in the air, then made grabby hand motions in Cas’s direction. “Alright, come on. Get out your phone.”

“I… I don’t take photos,” Cas muttered.

“Wait.”

“Don’t say it - Dean,”

“So you’re telling me, that _You’ve got photos_ and -”

“ _Dean!_ ” Cas whined, sliding down in his seat.

“- _Everyone takes photos_ -”

“I don’t!”

“- and you don’t.”

“I swear I don’t!”

“Chickenshit.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. Come on, what do you do?”

“Guess then, Mr Know It All.”

Dean snorted. “You’ve met me, ain’t nothing know it all about me.”

“Whatever, Mr Undiscovered Prodigy.”

“I’m thirty!”

“You admitted you started making statues at ten.”

“Dude, it’s been twenty years.”

“That’s the undiscovered part.”

Dean blinked, suddenly aware that Cas’s face was mere inches from his face, his eyes glinting and his grin sharp. Dean sat back slowly.

“Whoa.”

Cas winked at him smugly. Dean rolled his eyes.

“Fine, whatever. Spoilsport.” He raked a hand through his hair. “So, tell me something else about you, then.”

“When I’m not working, I visit art exhibits and museums and critique art with a German accent.”

Dean stared. “You do not.”

Cas laughed. “No. I don’t.”

“That’d be weird.”

Cas hummed. “You’re right. It’s a French accent.”

Dean put his head down on the table, helplessly laughing.

“Ou zink I was jok-ing?” Cas murmured above him. “Ai neverh jhoke about arrt.”

“Ow,” Dean gasped. “Ow, dude, stop.”

“Ai zink ‘ou do not want me to stop.”

“Cas, Cas, please.”

“ _Pourquoi_ ,” Cas asked. “Zis is _trés drôle_.”

Dean pulled himself up again. “Tell me you don’t actually speak French.”

Cas grinned widely. “I don’t,” he confirmed, “but people take me oh-so-seriously when I pretend.”

“I wanna see that,” Dean blurted.

Cas tapped his empty glass with a finger, squinting at Dean.

“Alright,” he said after a while, “come on.”

They left the bar and Cas led them back towards Central Park.

“Walk, or hitch a ride?” he asked, after they cleared a gaggle of tourists. “You can sit on my handlebars.”

One of these days Dean had _got_ to stop blushing. Any minute now would be cool. He shook his head quickly.

“I’m a hundred and ninety pounds, Cas, I’m not gettin’ on your handlebars.”

“Suit yourself,” Cas said, one eyebrow raised.

Dean followed as Castiel took the path into Central Park. They zigzagged between tour guides and tourists, Cas pulling Dean aside when a woman jogged past them with a baby in a stroller. The greenery and trees made Dean’s shoulders relax as the city seemed to fade behind them.

“So what do you do, when you’re not artsing?” Cas asked after a few minutes.

“Artsing?” Dean glanced sideways at him.

“It’s a word.”

“It’s not.”

“Now it is.”

“Fuck you.”

“As you wish.”

_Goddamn_ there was the blush again. Dean cleared his throat.

“Anyway, where are we going?”

“Exhibit up ahead, there’s a few steel statues from … something, something, I’ve forgotten. Do you have any idea how much artsing goes on in Manhattan in the summer?”

“Uh, no? Still not a word though.”

“It definitely is. There’s a lot of artsing.”

“Dude, stop saying it!”

“Admit it’s a word.”

“No way.”

“You didn’t answer me about your non-artsing hobbies.”

“Shit.”

Cas laughed.

“Asshat,” Dean muttered. “I work, obviously. Play pool with a few friends. Uh. Sometimes I teach math.”

Cas’s eyebrows rose. “Math?”

They stepped to the side as a group of bikers passed between them.

“It’s nothing serious, really. A friend’s got a kid in Junior High, so I helped him out. Then he brought a few friends, and then there were like ten of them. The school heard, and they run an afterschool program and… I got roped into it. I have no idea how.” Dean spread his hands. “I’m entirely innocent.”

“Are you good at it?”

“I guess, I mean, the kids like me. I taught myself, and then Sammy, when he was in Jr High. I did ok in high school too, but it’s not like I graduated. I dropped out last semester and got my GED the year after.”

Cas hummed. The path wound on, the trees and scent of greenery interspersed by people, people with animals, people with bikes, people with food. They chatted amicably for a while, before Cas pointed at a bronze statue up ahead.

“There. Let’s start with that one, we’ll get to the exhibit soon. Grab my bike.”

“You’re seriously doing this?”

“Of cour’rse I am,” Cas said. “Now shush and observe.”

He ambled up to the statue, Dean following a few paces behind with the bike. Cas stopped and hummed, then walked a few paces to the right, pausing to study the sculpture.

“Ziz sculpture iz a very good _interprétation_ of the most famous Bard, as ‘e would ‘ave been in late life,” he said over his shoulder to Dean. “‘Ou can see ov’rr here ze zimilaritie to ze paintings, with ze tunic and ze short trouserz.”

Cas took a few steps back and raised his right thumb, as though measuring the sculpture. A couple of tourists with expensive looking cameras stopped by Dean and took a few photos, staying to listen to Cas.

“It follows ze rules of proportions, to make it life size - or az nearr as we can come,” Cas continued, unfazed. “Ze detail on ze trouserz is quite well executed by ze _artiste_.” 

Dean closed his eyes for a minute, trying to quell his laughter. He let out a slow breath and focused again on Cas who was now standing behind the statue (look up if this is possible).

“Ze _artiste_ must be quite imaginatif to consider ze _derriere_ of ze Bard,” Cas mused.

Dean snorted. Then he snorted again. The tourists glanced at him. He cleared his throat, looking back at Cas. Cas, who had poked his head out from behind the statue, hair askew and eyebrows drawn.

“Show ze Bard some respect, _s'il vous plaît_.”

Dean turned on his heel and led the bike away, barely making it around the nearest corner before he had to stop and lean on the handlebars to laugh.

“Told you I could get you onto my handlebars,” Cas said a minute later, appearing behind him.

Dean swatted blindly at him, gasping for air, eyes wet. “Help,” he wheezed. “I’m dying.”

“I hope not,” Cas said. “That would be incredibly unfortunate.”

Dean clung to the bike until he finally managed to find his breath again.

“The tourist’s faces,” he said, helplessly.

“... and that’s why I do it.”

Dean laughed weakly. “Dude, my abs are going to hurt for days.”

“We’re not even at the exhibit.”

“Let’s go then. One more, okay?”

Cas lead them quickly onto another path, past a grove that smelled disturbingly of urine, and onto some sort of field, where ten or so steel sculptures were dotted around the area.

“‘Ere,” Cas handed his bike back to Dean. “One morr.”

Dean nodded silently, trying to prepare. He couldn’t have. Cas walked up to the curved piece of steel, circled around it slowly while making humming noises and vague exclamations. He measured it with his thumb, he stuck his head through the open space in the middle. When Dean didn’t think it could get more ridiculous, Cas suddenly swung himself into a handstand and looked at it upside down.

Dean was trying not to stare. He was. It was just that Cas’s blue t-shirt slid down and revealed the dark strands of Cas’s happy trail and suddenly Dean remembered that he wasn’t goofing off with a friend, he was _on a date_ with this ridiculously hot guy. He swallowed, his mouth dry. Cas put his feet down again, t-shirt and leather jacket falling back into place, before he walked up to Dean.

“I am sorree,” he said, shaking his head, “but ziz piece, it… provokes emotioshun, oui? Ze curve, it’s trés, trés _suggestif._ I ‘ave rarely seen ziz amount of suggestion in steel arrt.”

“How so?” Dean asked, the corners of his mouth twitching.

“Ziz.. Pardonnez-moi, I cannot find ze proper words - ziz reminds me of mah prostate massager, from Aneros.”

“Your -” Dean stared.

“Oui, ze comparison is crude but -”

Dean blinked. Then his brain rebooted. He blinked again. Nope. Cas had said that. He looked up and met Cas’s eyes and they broke out laughing again, leaning on each other. Dean pulled up the hem of his t-shirt to wipe his eyes and struggled to breathe. Again.

“Dude, you’re nuts.”

“If I have nuts, am I nuts?”

Dean leaned his head on Cas’s shoulder. “Stop, stop, please, I can’t -”

“Say uncle.”

“Uncle, please Cas, my ribs.”

Cas’s hand was warm against Dean’s neck, his voice low. “Okay. I’ll have mercy.”

For a long moment they stood there, Dean hiding his face in Cas’s shoulder, Cas with his hand on Dean’s neck. Cas felt solid as Dean wrapped his arms around him, pressing himself closer.

“Still want to see my drawings?” Cas murmured.

Dean nodded.

“Okay. Come on then,” Cas nudged him up. “This way.”

Even as Dean pulled back and let Cas’s left arm fall from his back, he grinned. Cas smiled mischievously at him, then nodded towards the path, leaving the statue behind them.

Dean followed. 

 

Several blocks and six floors later, Dean was starting to wonder if maybe he should take up running, or yoga, or something. The staircase wound upward, but Castiel stopped by a door and leaned his bike on the wall to dig in his backpack.

“Dude!” Dean said as Cas unlocked the door. “You live in a shoebox.”

“Ah, yes,” Cas said wryly, “I believe the selling feature of this apartment was that it _has a window_. Shoes by the door, please.”

He heaved his bike up onto hooks on the wall, before toeing off his shoes and kicking them toward Dean’s feet.

Dean snorted and bent to unlace his boots. “I take one step in, you’ll have sand everywhere.”

Castiel grinned. “Very true.”

The apartment was indeed tiny, most of the floor space covered by a three seat sofa. Cas had a wall mounted TV opposite it. Cas waved him past and Dean sat down by the _selling feature_. He peered out.

“It’s like nine feet to the next apartment building,” he said, “do you even get sunlight?”

“It’s a $1000 a month window, Dean. Be nice to it. It can’t help the unfortunate view.”

“A thous… holy -” Dean looked around wide eyed. “Dude, I can touch the walls if I spread my arms out!”

“Fifteen feet by six feet,” Cas said, rummaging in a closet by the front door. “Bathroom’s another 16 square feet. I shower over the toilet. Bed folds out over the sofa. I’m rarely home, so I don’t need much space - or belongings, for that matter - ah, here it is! It’s been a while since I drew anything.”

Cas handed him a folder and Dean took it.

“Beer?” Cas asked.

“Sure,” Dean said absently, opening the folder and pulling out the loose sheets of paper.

He stared at them. Page after page of remarkable pencil drawings, in great detail. A few of them were clearly line art, the thin lines winding over the page to show the outlines of people and animals.

“I used to draw for money,” Castiel said, peering over his shoulder. “Panhandling, really, but I found I could tolerate showing people line art, and it’s quick enough for me to draw.”

“These are awesome,” Dean breathed. “Dude.”

He passed the ones he’d seen to Cas, who gently tucked them into the folder again. Then he had to pause and stare at a drawing of a giant eye with four fingers crawling out of it, fingernails long and pointed and ugly. The eye was wide open, glistening as though with unshed tears, the pupil a white cross.

“Wow,” Dean said.

Cas squirmed a little. “I know, it’s not perfect. I could have worked a little harder on the shading and texture -”

Dean gave him an incredulous look. “No way. I’d love this on my wall.”

He studied the drawing for awhile longer before handing it to Cas. There were a dozen others, leaving Dean’s sweating beer on the window sill as he tried to gather all the details. It was clear that Cas was drawn toward the macabre and surrealistic, with drawings of spiders holding children on leashes and melting woman breastfeeding an adult man. Eventually the pile dwindled and Cas fidgeted nervously next to him.

“The last one is sort of out there,” he rushed out, “Please don’t pretend to like it to make me feel good.”

Dean nodded absently, still stuck on the next to last drawing even as he handed it to Cas. The last drawing was the most detailed and realistic that he’d seen. Two men were clearly fucking, one of them riding the other with his head thrown back and ecstasy etched on his face, entirely unaware of the other man, rotting below a facial mask.

Dean stared. He was quite sure he’d stared more in the past few hours than he ever had in his life, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the drawing in his lap. The muscles and facial features were stunning in both realism and expression.

“Holy shit,” he said at last. “Cas…”

“Yes?” Cas asked in a low voice. “I know it’s really -”

“This is amazing. Look at the detail here,” Dean pointed. “This guy’s so unaware that the other guy’s dead, doesn’t have a clue what’s really going on. You really haven’t shown anyone these?”

Cas shook his head, gathering up the last drawing and sliding it into the folder. “I never took real classes, I don’t actually know what I’m doing.”

“But, your mom must have seen you draw!”

“A few times,” Cas said. “She sent me to an art therapist. Said I had some issues. I never drew around her after that. She doesn’t consider drawing a real art form anyway, just a past time for children and teenagers, and that the actually talented people move on to painting after that.”

“Your mom’s a dick,” Dean said, then flushed and reached for his beer. “I mean, not like that, she’s probably really nice, I just -”

Castiel laughed, a bitter and raw sound. “She threw me out for being gay, Dean. That’s why we haven’t spoken in years. So yes, she is indeed, as you say, a dick.”

Dean swallowed his mouthful of beer and put it back on the window sill. Cas had pulled up one leg onto the couch, turning towards him, his eyes wide and vulnerable.

“Wait,” Dean said. “You’ve never shown those to anyone, but you’re showing me?”

Cas nodded. “I critiqued your work, quite unfavourably I might add. It’s only fair.”

Dean’s fingers tingled as he laid his hand on Cas’s knee, watching the other man tense for a brief moment as Dean sought and caught his gaze.

“You’ve got talent,” he said. “You’ve got so much talent. If you’ve never taken a drawing class - Cas, your work is amazing. You need to show someone. Let me show Bela? Or Sarah?”

Cas hunched forward and dropped his eyes to Dean’s hand on his knee. “I don’t know.”

“Look, I don’t either - I mean, I didn’t, with the statue. Bela said I’m good, and I don’t trust myself, but I trust her. You don’t gotta decide now. Just… think about it, okay?”

He scooted nudged Cas’s chin up to look him in the eye again. Cas wet his lips, his eyes flitting from Dean’s to his mouth and back again.

“I’ll think about it,” Cas said, “but right now, I would really like to kiss you.”

Dean leaned forward, drawn in by the look in Cas’s eyes and that pink tongue peeking out to lick his lips again.

“Yeah, Cas. Yeah, I am,” Dean whispered against his lips, before gently ghosting his own against Cas’s.

It must have broken some spell, because Castiel didn’t kiss like anyone Dean had ever kissed before. There was no roughness or force, but the intensity behind each kiss was palpable. Soon, Cas sucked lightly on Dean’s lower lip, then deepend their kisses as Dean opened his mouth, Cas’s hands coming up to cradle Dean’s head.

Dean wound his arms around Cas and tried to pull him closer, before they had to break away from the awkward position. Cas straightened his leg, slowly leaning back and drawing Dean down over him on the couch, which was definitely too narrow for two grown men, but it wasn’t like either of them cared. Dean’s legs tangled with Cas’s as he settled over him, pressing gentle kisses against Cas’s lips until Cas drew away for a moment, staring up at Dean. His hair was ruined, his lips pink and his breath shallow.

“You okay?” Dean breathed into the sliver of air between them.

“Very,” Cas said in a low voice, finger’s tracing Dean’s cheek, “but we might want to move to the bed.”

Dean nodded, letting himself be pulled into one last kiss before Cas gently pushed him up. He ended up quickly making use of the bathroom while Cas pulled something that revealed an entire bed hidden behind the couch. When Dean came back into the room, the bed was waist high on him, Cas on top of it with a mess of blankets and pillows. Dean heaved himself up, pleased that the bed didn’t even twinge in objection.

Cas reached a hand out, pulling Dean down against him.

Dean went willingly.

 

It turned out that the $1000 window did, in fact, get sunlight. Dean squinted at it, offended, and tried to close his eyes harder. It didn’t help. Then he wriggled to face the other direction and pushed his head into his pillow. The darkness was complete. For a long moment he drifted, until a soft snore had him opening one eye to look over the edge of the pillow. Cas was on his side, facing Dean, mouth slack and hair rumpled. He had one tanned hand curled near his mouth, a thin sheet over his legs.

Oh. He’d stayed the night.

Oops.

He should definitely leave. Good speed dating only worked if you left before the other person woke up. He spent some more time blinking towards Cas, who slept obliviously, the morning light entirely missing his side of the bed.

A loud, obnoxious ringing tore through the air and Cas startled awake while Dean practically vaulted out of the bed, scrambling for the pile of jeans.

“Mak’id’st’p,” Cas grumbled from beneath his pillow.

“Sorry, sorry, it’s my damn phone,” Dean said.

He banged his head on the wall as he bent for them, finally digging out his phone with one hand while he rubbed his forehead with the other.

“Shit, I gotta - Hi, Sammy!”

“Dean!” Sam burst out.

“Yeah, uh, hi,” Dean tried. “Uh, so…”

“I’ve been calling!” Sam said loudly. “And texting! Where are you?”

“I, uh, something came up and -”

“You left the TV on! We came home and there wasn’t a note and then Crowley called and - shit, are you safe? Can you talk?”

Dean groaned. Cas grabbed blindly the other pillow and put it over his own.

“I’m good, Sam.”

“Password?” Sam asked, probably doing that intense frowning thing again.

“Jesus, what are we, twelve?”

“You disappear for over twelve hours, you give me a damn password, Dean,” Sam bit out.

Dean stared at the wall and counted to five. The wall stayed clean and white. Dammit.

“ _Twinkies_ ,” he muttered.

“Oh,” Sam said, “ _Oh_. Uh. That’s good, then. Twinkies. That’s… I don’t think you’ve ever needed to use that one. Hey, who did -”

“Wait,” Dean broke in, brain finally registering something Sam had said. “When did Crowley call?”

Cas nudged the pillows aside and half of his face appeared from below them.

“Last night, late. Woke us actually, we thought you’d gone out and would be back later. He called Bela, so we came looking for you, but you weren’t back.”

“God, Sam. Give the damn phone to Bela and go eat a cracker or something.”

“Hey, screw you.”

“Bela, or I’m hanging up.”

There was some shuffling from the other end and Dean rolled his eyes. Cas’s bleary squint got squintier and he made a _get on with it_ motion with one finger.

“Quite the scare you gave us,” Bela’s cool voice said through the phone.

“I’m sorry,” Dean said, “I’ll buy you damn flowers and take Sam out for some hippie smoothie shit, but please, someone just tell me what Crowley said.”

“He wants to see more of your work.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Full ride, dah-rling. You start in September.”

“What?” Dean couldn’t even be bothered about the squeaking. “For real?”

Cas removed a pillow from his head, revealing more of his face. He raised an eyebrow at Dean. Dean blinked at him uncomprehendingly.

Bela hummed in agreement. “A lot of fine print, of course, but essentially, yes.”

“Holy. Shit.”

“Did I break you?” Bela sounded amused.

“Fuck flowers and smoothies, we’re going out for steak and beer tonight and Sam can just fucking deal.”

Bela laughed. “I’ll tell him.”

When he hung up the phone he stared at it for a second before he whooped, tossing it back on the pile of clothing. He crawled up over Cas, liberating the remaining pillow from him and stared down at the man below him.

“Did you hear that, Cas? A full ride, holy shit, I get a full fucking ride.” He couldn’t stay still, his entire body vibrating. Cas squinted up at him. “Bela says I start in September, I gotta get back to Kansas, pack up my entire life, gotta quit my job and - shit, Cas, where’m’I gonna live?”

Cas’s face split into a smile. “You got in.”

“I just said that.”

“You’re moving here.”

“That’s the point.”

Cas frowned. “It’s very early.”

Dean laughed, curling into Cas’s shoulder. “Yeah, probably like seven, my phone turns the sound back on at seven.” Cas made a disgusted sound. “I guess you’re not a morning person then. Coffee?”

“Coffee,” Cas agreed dreamily against Dean’s hair.

They took turns using the miniature bathroom before Cas handed him a cup of very strong coffee, having managed to drain a cup already while Dean pulled on his t-shirt and boxers. He sat back on Cas’s bed, and Cas climbed in next to him once the Keurig had spat out another cup. They drank in comfortable silence, even if Dean couldn’t stop smiling.

“Wait,” Cas said.

Dean turned to him.

“You got the scholarship.”

“Mmhm,” Dean said, sniggering silently, before reaching over to squeeze Cas’s hand. “Thanks.”

“... for what?” Cas frowned.

“Crowley? I mean, I wasn’t intending for this -” Dean gestured between them “- but that apology sandwich was about smooching Crowley.”

Cas grinned sheepishly. “I never did. I said we don’t really get along that well. I haven’t talked to him at all, not since the show. You didn’t need me, Dean. You did it, your art did it.”

Dean stared at him. Cas’s hair was still sticking up in all directions and he had also pulled on a t-shirt and boxer briefs, but to Dean, he just looked amazing.

“I really want to kiss you again,” Dean breathed before he could stop himself.

Cas startled, before he threw back his head and laughed. Dean promptly blushed beet red.

“Oh, man, I’m usually so much smoother than this,” he groaned. “Where’s that pillow, I’m going to smother myself.”

Cas reached forward, pecked him on the lips and deftly plucked the empty coffee cup from Dean’s hand, before he placed it with his own on the window sill. There was a glint in his eyes when he turned back to Dean.

“Let’s celebrate,” he said.

“I’m taking Sam and Bela out for steak,” Dean said. “You’re welcome to come with.”

“Sure,” Cas said. “Later.”

He pulled his T-shirt over his head and kicked his boxers off again, before reaching for Dean. He pressed in close, tangling his fingers into the short hair at the back of Dean’s head. Dean stared into blue eyes, already breathless.

“I feel more like… desert,” Cas said against Dean’s lips, casually tugging Dean’s T-shirt off.

“Desert,” Dean repeated dumbly.

Cas hummed and kissed him, slow and deep.

“I was thinking ice cream,” he said, and pushed Dean down on the bed.

“Sure. I - _ah_ \- I like ice cream.”

Turned out, so did Cas.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Eeeeeeeeeeek. Did you see the fantastic art? DID YOU? Mask is amazing, so please check out the art master post [here](https://maskofcognito.tumblr.com/post/175142881600/art-master-post-the-art-of-apology-by-aleeliah-art)
> 
> Thanks also to my beta readers and Ampickers: [HorrorGirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/horrorgirl/pseuds/horrorgirl), [DaydreamDestiel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaydreamDestiel/pseuds/DaydreamDestiel), Lisa Lemur and Tisha.


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